


With a Thousand Dreams (I'm Holding Heavy)

by duplicity



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, Drama, Falling In Love, Generation Mash-up, M/M, Mystery, Obsessive Tom Riddle, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Quidditch Player Harry Potter, Romance, Somewhere in Time Fusion, Time Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:54:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23623465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duplicity/pseuds/duplicity
Summary: Tom Riddle has been designated as the sole heir of retired Quidditch star Harry James Potter.Before today, the two of them have never so much as crossed paths—or so Tom believes.Time seems to believe differently.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 73
Kudos: 243





	1. The Mysterious Benefactor

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is loosely based on the movie 'somewhere in time'. for anyone who has actually watched the movie, don't worry the ending of this story will be happy 💕
> 
> title taken from the song 'youth' by foxes.
> 
> the quote at the start, i found while randomly looking for insp. i felt it fit very nicely.
> 
> originally started writing this for the tomarry d&d-athon on tumblr, hosted by [TomarryHereWeGoAgain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TomarryHereWeGoAgain/pseuds/TomarryHereWeGoAgain)!
> 
> anyways... ya this is another WIP, don't expect regular updates lol

“It is an unwritten rule of life that when you are in acute pain and have no one to console you, someone, from somewhere, will emerge in your life to offer you comfort. However, ‘that’ someone will vanish from the scene once you begin to regain grip on your life, leaving you with another sense of loss to nurse.”

― Hari Parameshwar, Chase of Choices

* * *

At night, the Department of Mysteries was different.

Most of the rooms that contained experiments were kept in the dark during the evening, but there was a certain eerie quality to wandering the dim-lit corridors long after everyone else had gone home for the day.

Tom adjusted the hood of this cloak, peering down the end of the hall. He was alone. Just to be sure, Tom slid his yew wand down into his hand, grasping the handle with care. A few detection spells later, he was reassured of his solitude.

Long strides carried him down the corridor and towards his destination. The Veil sat in the Death Chamber, which was a large, rectangular room with a cold stone floor.

They had once tried putting other things in the room—misfortune fell upon even the most mundane of items. Desks had their legs snapped, carpets grew mold. And so the room now lay dormant and empty, save for the Unspeakables who would visit it during the day to try more experiments on the mysterious Veil.

Upon entering the room, Tom felt a chill pass over his body, drenching him with a sense of _wrongness_ that he could never seem to shake.

The Veil was silent where it sat on the dias, only the absence of sound made the structure all the more ominous. If Tom was to draw nearer, he would hear the whispers of the dead that lay on the other side.

All his life, Tom had been fascinated by death. The endless struggle of humanity; the war they had yet to win. The concept that he swore to someday conquer. 

In his fourth year at Hogwarts, Tom’s class had visited the Department of Mysteries as part of a field trip. After convincing a few of his classmates to wander off with him, they had ended up in this very room. And thus began an obsession like no other: a desire to know what this strange veil was, and what it was separating them from.

Was the Veil truly a link to the world of the dead, like many had hypothesized? Or something more sinister—a cache of Inferi, perhaps.

Nevertheless, Tom was determined. He was sure that the answer to defeating death lay in this room, with the Veil that had stood here long before the walls of the Ministry had been built around it.

An odd whisper floated into his ear. Tom hadn’t realized just how close he had drifted in the midst of his musings. The important thing to remember about the Veil was that there were no audible words—it was all a trick to lure unsuspecting people in. People would lose themselves in an attempt to hear the calls of the ghostly figures embedded in the shimmering swathe of magic.

But Tom knew better. He took some steps back, replacing the distance.

The Veil grew louder, the wails more prominent.

Tom’s chest felt tight. He stepped away yet again, the motion deliberate, only the noises followed, louder and louder, matched only by the roaring sound of his erratic breaths rattling in his lungs.

His ears strained against his will, listening—

_Tom? Tom, come back to me._

Stunned, Tom stumbled back further, his shoes noisy against the stone floor, unable to believe what he had just heard. His own name. Someone calling to him?

He listened again, only this time there was nothing.

Utter silence.

It was then that Tom realized he had nearly backed into the door in his haste. Eyes wide, he stared at the Veil, wondering what had triggered such a reaction. He was tempted to reapproach, to see if he could replicate the effect, only that would be dangerous to do, alone as he was. There would be no one to stop him if the Veil drew him in.

What he really ought to do now was go home. Go home, sleep, and forget about what he had heard.

So Tom went home. He went back to his flat, to his familiar room, to his warm bed.

But he did not forget.

* * *

Tom awoke to the delightful sound of his phone ringing. His Muggle phone, which he only kept around for appearance’s sake and so his Muggle landlord had a way of contacting him.

It took a few moments for Tom to extricate himself from his bed and roll over to peer at the name on the display.

The time was there, too. Nine-thirty on a Saturday morning.

Tom reached out and picked up the phone.

“Granger,” he drawled. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your call?”

On the other end of the line, Hermione Granger huffed in displeasure. “Charming as ever, I see.”

Tom smirked. “Not all of us are fortunate enough to maintain the hours of the typical office worker.”

That drew her up short, as he knew it would. Unspeakables were notorious for their secretive schedules, and it would not be unreasonable for Tom to have been up extremely late the night before. Which put her in the uncomfortable position of having potentially woken him after only a few hours’ sleep. Which she had, only it had been more as a result of Tom’s own choosing rather than his career requirements.

“Well,” Granger continued, hasty, “perhaps this could have been avoided if you were easier to contact! Do you know how long I had to look to find this number? It’s like you graduated Hogwarts and stopped existing altogether.”

Intentional. Tom planned to get what he wanted out of the Veil and the Department of Mysteries, and then he would leave to continue his research on immortality with his followers’ monetary backing.

“Is there a point to this call? Other than to deprive me of sleep and insult my career choices?”

Another pause, and then she said, “I have a client.”

Tom waited for her to continue. For someone with such a strong need to expound information upon everyone she met, Granger was being uncharacteristically stingy with her facts. It was enough to peak anyone’s curiosity.

“You’ve been chosen to receive an inheritance,” she said at last. “And so I was told to contact you.”

Granger worked freelance for the Department of Magical Law at the Ministry. Usually Granger took on charity cases; the execution of a will was not part of typical repertoire.

“Who?” Tom demanded. He had no relatives alive to speak of, and there was no one he could think of who would declare him as a part of their will. Although, perhaps one of his professors may have passed on? He had endeared himself to many of them, and it would not be completely out of character for one of them to have left Tom some token of appreciation.

“I can’t say, unfortunately. They’ve requested to meet you in person.”

“In person,” Tom muttered. They wanted to see him?

“It is a requirement for your inheritance,” Granger said.

“And you can’t tell me anything about who it is?” Tom asked. “You do realize how ridiculous this sounds.”

“I’m sorry, I am, but you have to come, and you have to come by yourself. I am legally obligated to withhold all other information.”

This was a problem, then, because Tom wanted more information. He’d just have to pull it out of her. “Am I supposed to trust your kind word that this person is not a murderer, or someone pulling a scam of some sort?”

“Of course not!” Granger said, indignant. “This is all completely legal, Riddle. They’ve just requested anonymity until you come to meet them.”

“And if I refuse?”

“If you refuse,” Granger said, that familiar, smug tone returning to her voice, “you’ll forfeit everything. This I _can_ tell you. And, should you refuse, you shall be losing quite a lot! So it would be in your best interests to do as I say.”

Tom weighed his pride against his curiosity. Granger was an irritant; they had been academic rivals at Hogwarts. But she was an honest person, and she would not lie about something like this.

“How much?” Tom pressed.

“Give me a moment, I have it here...” There was the sound of papers rustling, and then Granger read out the amount.

The staggering, unbelievable amount.

“Could you repeat that?” Tom asked weakly.

She did. The number did not sound any smaller than it had the first time. With this kind of money, Tom could fund his own private research for years, if not decades. And he could move out of this cheap flat into somewhere nicer.

“There are physical assets as well,” Granger said, satisfied with Tom’s reaction. “But those will be dealt with _in person._ ”

“Very well.” Tom inhaled through his nose, attention now fully occupied with Granger’s voice on the other end of the line. “When and where?”

Granger gave him an address and told him to meet her there in two hours. The address was a street somewhere in Muggle London. Tom assumed they would be Apparating from there to meet this mysterious benefactor.

“Unless you have something more important to do with your time?” she added pointedly.

“I will see you there, Granger,” Tom said, and then he hung up on her.

* * *

Granger was easy to spot at. distance. Her robes were always cut in a style that modelled Muggle wear, and her cloud of hair was a dead giveaway of her identity.

Prior to his departure, Tom had deliberated on what impression to make on this anonymous benefactor. Would it be safer to underdress and avoid the appearance of wealth? Or would the plebian approach result in putting them off?

In the end, he had settled for a variation of his usual work attire. It would lend the impression that he was a hard worker, but also that he didn't take himself too seriously.

The plain black cloak of the Unspeakable—the Ministry patch visible—grey trousers, and a collared shirt, robin’s egg blue.

“Riddle,” greeted Granger. “You’re early.” She had a large envelope under her arm. The documents she’d spoken of, Tom assumed.

“Wouldn’t do to be tardy and keep our special guest waiting,” Tom said, stretching his mouth into a polite smile. 

Granger eyed him, skeptical, but held out her arm. “I will be Apparating us there, if you’ll consent to side-along.”

He didn’t have much choice in the matter. Tom nodded and grasped her forearm, and then they spun away.

When they reappeared, it was before a pair of tudor doors set into a grand, ornate archway. Tom eyed the door handle, lifted his gaze to the lions carved into the arch above.

“This way,” said Granger. She placed a hand on the door, and Tom sensed the ward magic pass over them both—a wash of cold air as they were permitted entrance.

The interior of the manor was dark. Granger made a motion with her wand, and then a few lights flickered on. Low-light oil lamps built into the walls, all of it maintained by magic. Granger led them forward, and Tom allowed his gaze to wander.

Who would this house be left to? Would it be him? If he was already being left such a substantial amount of money, it stood to reason that the house would go to him as well.

There were portraits on the walls. Many of them slumbering, but some were awake, their eyes curious as they regarded their two newest guests. Tom noted their appearances. Dark hair, brown eyes. Aristocratic appearances, but the clothing spoke of upper-middle class. Expensive, but not excessive. If asked, Tom would have placed this mansion as one born and built from new money.

“We’re headed to the master bedroom on the upper floor,” Granger said. She hated long silences, Tom remembered. She liked to fill them with chatter.

“What do you think of the house?” Tom asked.

Granger turned to look at him. Her eyes did something funny—not quite narrowing, not quite squinting. “It’s nice enough,” she said slowly. “Drafty during the winter, I imagine. Definitely not the sort of place I’d pick for myself. I’d get lonely.”

“I can imagine. A home as large as this would be easy to lose yourself in.”

“Yes, exactly.” Granger still sounded suspicious, but she continued to speak, saying, “It’s an old home, family-owned for generations. There’s magic built into these walls, these wards, that likely cannot be found anywhere else. I’ve been examining them on and off, trying to see if I could recognize any of the magical components.”

“And have you?” Tom did his best to disguise his interest with indifference.

“Some,” Granger admitted. “But not all. Hence the importance of maintaining the property,” she added, crossing her arms over her chest.

Tom kept his face neutral. He would inherit the house, then. Or else she also knew who would be inheriting the house, and it was someone she did not trust to maintain the proper upkeep, or to not tear the manor down completely.

They made their way up a staircase and turned left. Tom allowed silence to fall between himself and Granger. He was now anxious to meet the person whose wealth he would be receiving. This could, perhaps, be the most important first impression he would ever impart.

“Anything I ought to know before we enter the room?” Tom asked. They were nearing the end of the hall, and he assumed the master bedroom would be the one on the very end.

Granger levelled him with another odd look. “Honestly, I’m not sure what to tell you. I’d say don’t be yourself, but I’m sure you already know that. But—” She paused, mouth scrunching up into a frown. “Be kind, Riddle. Whatever empathy you have, use it. If it was you, dying alone in a large house like this…” Her voice trailed off, her eyes growing misty. Then she sniffed, lifting her head up. “Be kind. Or else I’ll ensure you regret it.”

“I will,” Tom told her, solemn. He wouldn’t dare risk upsetting this person, not when a large lump sum was within reach.

“Right.” Granger exhaled as they came to a stop outside the closed door at the end of the hall. “I’ll introduce you, and then we’ll go from there. I wasn’t given any explicit instructions on what to do once I’d brought you here, so we’ll have to see what he wants.”

Before Tom could respond, she twisted the knob, and the door swung inwards, revealing the bedroom. Tom caught a glimpse of the colours—warm, light-toned woods, maroon and gold.

“Hermione? Is that you?”

“Yes,” Granger answered, now breathless as she strode quickly into the room, leaving Tom to follow at a sedate pace. “I’ve brought Tom with me.”

“Tom,” said the man. He was obscured by the bed hangings, which were closed. “Tom?”

The voice was familiar. Tom recognized it immediately—this voice had not left his mind since last night. The voice that had called his name.

“Mr. Riddle,” Granger said, her tone now perfunctory as she began to pull the hangings aside. “I would like you to meet Mr. Harry Potter.”


	2. A Picture's Worth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom Riddle, meet Harry Potter.

Harry Potter wore glasses. The frames—pitch black, round, shiny—were the first thing that Tom noticed. And then, beyond that, the brilliant viridescent eyes that lay behind the glass barrier. Pools of colour that had to be the result of magic, for there was no other explanation for the way they drew Tom’s gaze, like a moth to a Floo-fire flame.

“Mr. Potter,” Tom greeted. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Tom,” repeated Harry. “Call me Harry, please.” He was smiling, cheerful, with dimples on either side of his face, as though Tom’s visit was the best thing that had happened all week. Which it very well could be, given the emptiness of the house and the lack of blood-related heirs.

This was Tom’s mysterious benefactor. Harry’s hair was greying, his face gaunt and angular from what Tom guessed to be a severe illness of some kind, because Harry could not have been older than eighty.

“I shall leave you both to discuss,” Granger said softly, and then she retreated from the room, the door shutting with little to no noise.

“Have a seat,” Harry said. Though he appeared weak, his voice was firm, kind. “Hermione assures me the chairs are very comfortable. I wouldn’t know, seeing as it’s been a while since I’ve used them.”

This was Harry’s house, wasn’t it? How long had he been bedridden that he had forgotten what his own chairs felt like? Tom seated himself, smoothing the non-existent creases in his clothing.

Then Tom waited, expectant, for Harry to say more.

Harry didn’t. His eyes, riveted, were fixed upon Tom’s face, greedy as they roamed. It was not an expression Tom was unused to—gawking came with the territory of a handsome visage, and Tom was no stranger to unwanted advances. But coming from this man, from Harry, it felt… different. More intimate, as though Harry was peering past the layers, beyond the cotton of his shirt, deep into his heart, or even through the heart and into the soul.

Tom cleared his throat, the sound rough. “Ms. Granger told me you wished to speak to me?”

Harry blinked, his expression morphing into that of a chagrined schoolboy. “Sorry. It’s just—it’s been a while.”

Tom nodded, smiled. He would be patient. He could withstand some awkwardness.

“There’s something in the drawer next to you,” Harry continued. “Could you please fetch it for me?”

The drawer opened up to reveal a photo album. Thick, black leather cover. Gold filigree pressed upon the corners. “Is this it?” Tom asked, holding the album up for Harry to see.

“Yes,” said Harry. “Please, take a look. I feel like it’ll explain better than I ever could.” This was followed by a brief chuckle, which ended in a fit of coughing.

“Do you need some water?” Tom asked.

Harry waved a hand, wheezing. “It’ll pass,” Harry croaked out. “Look at the book.”

Hesitantly, Tom fingered the cover and lifted it open. 

Black and white photographs, all magical, as Tom would have expected. The very first photograph was a blown-up shot of Harry on the Quidditch pitch. He was attractive in youth. Wind-tousled black hair and handsome square jaw.

“You played Quidditch?” Tom asked idly.

Harry made a strange noise, prompting Tom to raise his gaze once again, concerned that the man might be about to nosedive into another coughing fit. “I played Seeker for the Cannons for decades.”

“Oh.” Tom didn’t pay much mind to Quidditch. “That’s very impressive,” he added, so as not to seem rude.

“Keep looking,” Harry said, an odd fondness infusing his voice.

Discomfited, Tom dropped his eyes back to the album and flipped the page. Then he paused, frozen, for the image he had turned to was impossible.

It was Harry, still in Quidditch gear, his brilliant, dimpled smile on full display. And next to him, arm slung around his waist, gaze full of adoration, was Tom. Or else it was someone who _looked_ like Tom Riddle, from the curl of his hair down to the Gaunt ring which rested upon his left hand.

Seized by the need to confirm this, Tom flew through the rest of the book. More photographs, more photos of them together. Tom was a constant by Harry’s side. The mannerisms of his likeness were unmistakable—counterfeit photos were near impossible to fake accurately. Tom recognized himself in these photos; this _had_ to be him.

Only the events of this photo album took place decades in the past, before Tom had even been born.

“Tom?”

“These photographs are of us,” Tom said, bewildered. “You already know who I am?”

Then, slowly, the pieces began to pull together. This explained why Tom was receiving such an inheritance. The Harry Potter in these photographs was clearly besotted with Tom Riddle. So besotted, in fact, that Harry had been inclined to seek him out decades later. 

“I’ve known you for a long, long time,” Harry said softly. He shifted in the bed, pulling himself upright and into a sitting position. The movement winded him, and it took a few torturous moments for him to recover his breath. “I’ve been waiting for you to come back to me, Tom.”

Decades. Harry must have been waiting for this moment for decades.

Tom felt shaken to his core, certain right down to his bones that this simple fact was true. _Harry had waited for him._

“How many years?” Tom asked.

Harry smiled, rueful. “A lot.”

Tom’s hands, still clutched around the photo album, trembled. “And we were together?”

“We were.”

Tom didn’t do relationships. He did not have attachments. He had _dalliances,_ and when he had no one, he was unbothered by it. He had his work, his ambitions, and those were more than enough. But these photographs told another story entirely.

Harry was calm, his lively eyes fixed on Tom, his mouth curled on the ends. “Unexpected, I know. But I am telling the truth.”

“I believe you,” Tom said. He ought to set the album aside, but his hands held fast to the leather, to the cardboard edges. The Tom Riddle in these photos looked happy. “You want me to go back.”

“I’m not aiming a wand at your head, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Tom fingered the corner of the album, thinking. However he had managed to travel back in time, it had happened. He had done it, and he had won Harry Potter’s heart. This act was what would lead to Tom receiving a sizable inheritance many years later.

Tom would do it. He already _had_ done it, and the proof was resting on his lap.

“Very well,” Tom said. “It would seem my way forward is clear. May I keep this?”

Harry laughed. The sound was faint, faded. It blended right into the ambient noise of the old, shivering house. “Of course, Tom. Merlin knows I’ve got the whole thing memorized.”

“Is there anything else you’d like to ask of me?” Tom said, wondering what sort of etiquette existed for this specific situation. Would Harry like a kiss? Tom could do it, if it was asked of him.

“Seeing you is more than enough,” Harry said, and Tom got the impression of humour hiding between the words, as though Harry had guessed at the direction his thoughts had taken. “Some days I wondered if I had dreamt it all up, you know? For the longest time, there was nothing, no trace of you at all. And even after, there was only your name on a page.”

It should have been unsurprising to hear that. Harry would have followed his life, from his birth to his education to his workplace. If he were to look, perhaps he would find that parts of his life had Harry’s fingerprints on them. Something for later, Tom decided. For now, there were still facts to uncover.

“Why now?” Tom asked. The answer was obvious, but he wanted it confirmed all the same. “What if we were supposed to meet by accident?”

“I’m dying,” Harry said plainly. “And Godric help me, but I am a selfish man when it comes to you. I had to see you, to know what we had was real. To know I didn’t spend my entire life pining after a fantasy.”

* * *

Granger was hovering in the hall outside, just two doors down from the master bedroom. She glanced up at the sound of the door, halting mid step. She must have been pacing. Upon spotting him, she adopted a firm stance, her legs held slightly apart as though to brace for impact.

“Granger,” Tom greeted. “I believe he wants to speak to you.”

“Thank you.” Granger nodded. Her eyes dropped to the photo album wedged under his arm. “Shall I see you to the door?”

Tom bared his teeth at her, sharp and only vaguely threatening. “I’m afraid our business is not yet concluded.”

“I see.” Granger chewed on her lower lip and crossed her arms. “Don’t wander off, then.” Her eyes narrowed at him, her shoulders set in place and daring him to challenge her. Righteous Gryffindors. So eager to please, so eager to assert their moral dominance.

“I wouldn’t think of it,” Tom told her. “I’ll be downstairs in the study, waiting.”

Then he swept past her, descending the stairs and making his way to where Harry had said the study was located.

The rest of the house was dark. Tom lit his wand, stepping through the empty rooms. Much of the furniture had coverings draped over them. The coverings were clean, but the entire look of them gave off a hollow, eerie feel. The disuse of the house was odd, but perhaps Harry lived elsewhere, and this was only a choice of resting place. Or perhaps he had returned to England for Tom.

Tom reached the study, which was pitch black like the rest of the house. Then he paused.

He was used to entering rooms and having the lights go on immediately—the product of magic. After a long second, Tom raised his wand again and searched for a light switch. He found the switch and flicked it, flooding the room with light.

This entire mansion was outfitted with electricity. It must have taken a monumental amount of time and effort to mesh the magical and Muggle functions of the house together. Tom had worked a few aspects of Muggle technology into his own flat out of a desire for the convenience of it, but even that had taken a few dedicated hours of work.

As the lights dazzled, Tom squinted, allowing his eyes to adjust. There was less dust here than he would have expected. The work of House-Elves, or maybe the simple presence of preservation magic.

Tom drew a finger across one of the bookshelves, then scrutinized his fingerprint for dirt. The shelf was not perfectly clean, and it lacked the innate thrum of spellwork. Elves, then.

Turning to the shelf again, Tom scanned the collection of worn, colourful spines. Most of these were books he’d already read. Moving further, he noted the desk was bare save for a few framed photographs resting on the right corner. Curious, Tom drew closer to examine them.

More magical photographs, all encased in one large, decorative frame that was split into sections. Tom was nowhere to be found in these photos, but Harry’s face shone in most of them, waving and smiling. Tom set his photo album down and picked up the frame, inspecting it.

There was Harry with two adults who looked to be his parents. The father was an older version of Harry, taller and with longer facial features. Lankier where Harry was well-built. The mother was where Harry had inherited his startling green eyes. Kind eyes, Tom thought. That was the word that came to mind.

The remaining photographs looked to be with friends. Harry with his Quidditch teammates. Harry with others that Tom did not know. A woman with vibrant red hair and freckles, also dressed in Quidditch gear, her arm slung around Harry’s shoulders.

Friends and family. The familiar faces that had flitted in and out of Harry’s life over the years. These were people that Tom would need to know if he was to complete his task.

Tom drew his wand again and tapped the frame. _“Gemino.”_

The frame duplicated itself. The new version was static, the photos unmoving, but it suited the purpose Tom had created it for. These photos would serve as a starting point. Tom shrunk the new frame down and tucked it into the pocket of his robes.

If he was to travel back in time to win Harry over, then he would need this information. Harry had given him a start, a time and a place, but he’d refused to elaborate further. Tom would have to make do with what his opportunities afforded him. An album of memories, and whatever else he could find in this house before Granger kicked him out.

It was a wise decision to not pry too far, anyways. Unspeakables knew well what meddling with time could do. People working with time sought its terminus, sought the source of the threads that held their universe together. Even Muggle science could not explain half of the impossibilities that occured in the Department of Mysteries.

Tom had witnessed coworkers succumb to the destructive capabilities of time. Time was not tamed easily; it adhered to unknown, unwritten rules. People who worked with time sometimes vanished from their offices altogether. It was a hazardous occupation that belonged to those with a true thirst for solving the world’s most complex problems.

Upon his graduation, it had been a narrow choice between two concepts: time and death. Wary of the dangers of time and set in his fervent obsession, Tom had chosen death, had chosen the Veil. But he kept tabs on the rest regardless, because time and death were linked in many ways, and his influence kept him informed. 

Tom knew that Nott had been working on variants of the Time-Turner. He would simply pay the man a visit, impart a reminder of where Nott’s loyalties ought to lie, and that would be that. If there was a way of travelling back, then Tom would have hands on it before the end of the week, if not by the end of the day.

But before he got ahead of himself, he needed to prepare. Harry Potter would become the new, temporary subject of his focus. For a popular Quidditch star there would be interviews and articles to pour through. At the very least, Harry’s rise to fame ought to have been documented.

Tom had his work laid out ahead of him, but he was sure that he would be able to gather an accurate image of the young man Harry had once been. From there, it would simply be a matter of determining how best to proceed with wooing him.

Once Harry’s affections were secure, then the time loop would be complete. Tom would return to his own time, and he would be provided for with the inheritance Harry was set to deliver upon him.

The plan made sense, and the photographic evidence was clear. Tom had to go back. There would be no avoiding it, and the consequences of failing to adhere to the events of the past could be horrific. It was better to be proactive, to arm himself with the appropriate information and secure himself safe passage to the forties.

Tom would go back in time, and everything else would follow. Fate had already spelled it so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tom is gearing the fuck up to secure his sugar baby status. what a man.


	3. Books and Cleverness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom Riddle has a diary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw TEMPORARY CHARACTER DEATH
> 
> i cannot stress this enough that this is NOT permanent 
> 
> pls do not cry in the comments bc no one is staying dead ok

Granger entered the study with another folder wedged under her arm. Tom suspected that a part of her enjoyed playing the role of the harried genius. She had always carried enormous books around with her at Hogwarts, her frizzy hair like an ominous thundercloud as it shadowed her sleep-deprived features.

Tom turned to face her. He had finished snooping well before he heard her approach, and therefore he had been the very picture of innocence when she walked in.

“Mr. Potter is asleep now,” Granger told him. “I suspect he will be for a few hours; he tires easily. But he was happy to see you.” She frowned at this, like the concept was foreign to her, then continued, “He’s said I’m to begin acquainting you with the assets you stand to inherit.”

“What is the matter with him?” Tom asked. “Harry is rather _young_ to be dying.”

It had bothered Tom since the beginning. He was sure now, more than ever, that the voice he had heard emerge from the Veil belonged to Harry. But Harry was still _alive,_ was currently resting upstairs in this large, eerie mansion.

“I’m not sure,” Granger said. “And he won’t say, before you ask. But it must be terminal if he’s gone out of his way to arrange all this.”

Tom pondered this, then said, “Very well. Let’s review the assets.”

That took some time. Harry had a diverse portfolio of investments in various companies, properties, and bank accounts. It was all interesting, certainly, but Tom found he had difficulty focusing on Granger’s meticulously-compiled documents. His thoughts were consumed by Harry, by the phantom voice.

By the end of Granger’s report, Tom was more than ready to leave.

“Wait,” said Granger. “One more thing before you go, Riddle. I need to key you into the wardstone so you can return later on. Mr. Potter’s already given me temporary access.”

“Excellent. Where is it?”

“It’s actually here in the study, just give me a moment—” 

Granger made her way over to the desk, waving her wand in a complex motion. A drawer popped open, and then Granger retrieved a small chest from it. The chest was solid iron, engraved with runes. It emanated powerful magic. It must have been centuries old.

The magic was singing. Softly, barely audible over the oppressive silence of the study, but Tom could hear it.

“You’ll have to cut your palm,” Granger said briskly. “And I will imbue the stone.” She opened the chest, revealing the plain grey stone within.

“Won’t be necessary,” Tom said.

Ignoring Granger’s subsequent cry of warning, Tom reached for the stone and plucked it from its silk cushion.

Granger’s protest died in her throat as her eyes flew wide. “You’re already keyed in?” she demanded, snatching the stone away.

“I had an inkling.”

Granger ran a thumb over the wardstone. “An inkling?” she asked, her voice rising. “That could have _killed you_. The magical backlash alone from trying to touch a wardstone of this level—”

“Thankfully for the both of us, it did not.” Tom smiled blandly at her, amused by her obvious irritation. No doubt she would go barmy trying to figure it out. “I shall depart now. Do we need to set another meeting?”

Granger’s hair was frizzing as she stared at him. “Yes,” she said. “Mr. Potter did say he wished to speak to me about a few other things, so I assume you will be hearing from me soon.”

“Wonderful.” Tom adjusted his robes. “I’ll await your call, then. Or perhaps you can send an owl?” He raised a brow at her, condescension dripping as he said, “So we can avoid any further rude awakenings.”

Granger’s face contorted into a scowl as Tom left the room. Overall, he was pleased with how the day had gone.

Tom passed out into the main hall, where most of the portraits on the walls resided. They were all awake now, watching him as he strode towards the exit. This manor was so big. It was no wonder that Harry had not wanted to live here on his own; there was little to no practical use for all this space.

“Tom? Is that you?”

The portrait on the right side was a large frame, golden and untarnished. Within the canvas was a beautiful woman with thick, dark red hair that fell well past her shoulders. Her green, almond-shaped eyes held warmth in their brush strokes, their lovely colour unchanged from the photograph Tom had seen.

This was Harry’s mother.

“Yes,” Tom said, unsure what form of address was really appropriate for this situation.

“Come here, don’t be shy.”

Tom stepped over. The polished label on the bottom of the frame read ‘Lily Evans-Potter’. There was no year inscribed, unfortunately, though maybe that was for the best.

Lily’s gaze drifted over him before it settled on his face. “How is Harry doing?”

Tom held still, uneasy. The casual inspection of his person unnerved him. Tom liked to have the upper hand, but there was none of that to be had here. This woman knew a version of him that had yet to exist. 

Tom settled for saying, “He’s asleep at the moment.”

“Hmm.” Lily shifted to lean against the left side of the frame. “I suppose you’ll be leaving soon?”

Tom made a non-committal noise in response. Was Lily referring to the time travel he had yet to do? Or was she merely inquiring if Tom was leaving the house?

“My son has a good heart, Tom,” said Lily Evans-Potter. “The best heart I have ever known. There is nothing I would not do to see his happiness secured. Treat him kindly, and do not take him for granted.”

Here she paused, her eyes luminescent in the soft torchlight of the massive hallway. “Love is not a sacrifice. Love is a choice, and that choice has more power than all the magic in the world.”

* * *

At the Ministry the next day, Tom found himself swamped with work. He had no chance to catch Nott before the man had left at the end of the work period. Tom resigned himself to a carefully penned note, or perhaps a mildly ominous house call. Still, he was not too concerned. Everything would work out in the end.

Tom had requested for the rest of the week off, and he would spend that time focused on getting his affairs in order.

Who knew how long he would be gone for? Time travel was imperfect; there was no guarantee that days or weeks would not pass before he returned to the present.

Tom cleared his workspace of sensitive documents, locked away his most important research. These things could wait. His new destiny lay in the past, in the hands of a man whose heart Tom now owned.

It was a heady notion that filled Tom with a fever he had not known in years, not since he’d initially joined the Department of Mysteries and begun his research on the Veil. He had an album full of memories that would soon come to pass, a new period of his life waiting for him years and years in the past.

Harry James Potter, Seeker for the Chudley Cannons.

The past was waiting for them both. Tangible, alterable. Events that had yet to occur but would undeniably alter the course of his future for years to come.

Tom snapped his briefcase shut with a click and shrunk it down to the size of a small paperback novel. He tucked it into the left pocket of his robes, then took a last glance at his office. Nothing out of place; all items in their proper place.

Before he left the Ministry, there was one more task to complete.

* * *

The Death Chamber was colder than usual as Tom stepped into it. Tom lit his wand and stepped down the stone steps that led to where the Veil sat.

The black curtain fluttered in greeting, soft whispers creeping through the tattered fabric.

Tom knew better this time. He walked as close as he dared, then cast a Sticking Charm on his feet to prevent unconscious movement.

What was the secret of the Veil? Why had it called to him with Harry’s voice? 

Tom was seized with a burning curiosity, a desire to know. He had wandered the Hall of Prophecy many times, had eyed the long rows of dusty, glowing orbs that contained the threads of fate that bound magical people and creatures alike. 

Perhaps the Veil was similar. A call to destiny. A hint at his future.

Ahead of him, the low murmurs increased in volume—

Or he was only imagining that they were.

Tom steadied his breathing, feeling idiotic for what he was about to do. But he was intelligent, powerful, and he was not afraid of a blasted piece of magical architecture.

Tom called upon the Veil in his most demanding tone:

“Harry Potter?”

The air remained cold, the Veil’s whispers unchanged. If anything, the whispers seemed more… coherent. Tom strained to listen from where he had plastered himself to the floor. This would drive him mad, and wasn’t that the entire purpose of the accursed thing? To drive men mad?

Damn it to hell.

Tom twirled his wand in hand. Once, twice. Then he dispelled the Sticking Charm and strode two paces forward before recasting it. The atmosphere of the room provoked urgency, stoking the embers of a desire to know what lay beyond the Veil. What lay beyond death.

The Veil danced, its gauzy curtain shifting in and out of the archway that housed it.

And then, oh, Tom heard a voice call to him from the depths of that hellish realm—

_Do you think you love me? I should hate for us both to be disappointed, in the end._

It was his own voice. 

_His_ voice, and it was still speaking, its volume low enough that Tom could hardly hear it.

Caught in a trance of his own making, Tom unstuck his feet from the floor for the second time and moved closer.

_You must keep it with you at all times, do you see? My journal. It will protect you, keep you safe. Promise me you will do so._

His heart beat out a hurried tempo, drumming away in his ears as he expended every scrap of energy on listening for further instructions. Listening to his own voice, intent and full of purpose, delivering directives from his future self.

Tom strained, his feet shifting across the stone floor—

The Veil, inaudible once more, was tranquil as an invisible wind blew through, sending a chill down Tom’s spine.

Startled by the sudden shift in the air, Tom reoriented himself, backing away from the Veil. This was too dangerous. He had gotten too close for the second time, and he would not trust himself to return here again.

He was not mad. He was _not mad,_ and this Veil would not get the best of him.

* * *

Tom had never bothered with Quidditch before, but now he had a need for knowledge, and plenty of it. On his way home from the Ministry, he stopped by Flourish and Blotts for archived versions of the Prophet, and for popular Quidditch books dated over fifty years ago.

When he arrived at home, it was with a sizable stack of reading material, which he set aside in favour of summoning Harry’s photo album directly to his hand.

Tom collapsed on his sofa and flipped through the pages, intent on discovering evidence of one. After a few minutes of furious searching, Tom’s eyes caught on it.

Black leather book, the corners pressed shut with golden filigree just like the album, illegible title embossed on the front. A journal. His journal.

Now that he knew what he was looking for, it was easier to spot it. A few pages later on, there it was, peeking out over the edge of the book bag slung over his shoulder. And then a third time, lying next to his thigh as he and Harry lounged under a large birch tree.

Tom did not recognize the make and model of the notebook; it did not resemble anything he’d ever seen at Scrivenshaft's or Flourish and Blotts. Perhaps he’d purchased it there in Harry’s time? It certainly seemed that his future self had taken the advice of the Veil, carting the little black book about everywhere.

Tom tapped his fingers on the glossy edge of the photo album, now deep in thought.

These were all clues, but they did not add up to a full picture just yet. Beginning tomorrow, he would pinpoint as many locations from this photo album as he could. Most of these photographs had dates, which he would use to construct a basic timeline. 

Nothing too detailed, obviously, because that would only invite trouble, but enough so that he would never be caught off-guard.

Tom set aside the album and reached for his purchases. Not for the first time in his life, he planned to read late into the evening. The only difference now was the subject he’d chosen. An unfamiliar one, to say the least: the history of professional Quidditch in Britain.

* * *

The next morning, Tom awoke to an owl letter requesting his presence.

The script was blocky and elegant, likely done with the use of a Dicto-Quill. Tom eyed Granger’s signature on the bottom and resigned himself to a wasted morning.

Granger had a small office located in Hogsmeade, a short walk away from the Hog’s Head. Fitting, considering her penchant for charity cases. Diagon Alley was too flashy for her plebeian tastes.

Tom washed, dressed, and Apparated with no great hurry. If she was forced to wait for him, then all the better.

Her rented office was empty when he arrived, but the door was open. 

Tom cast the Tempus Charm; it was nearly noon. She must have stepped out for some food or coffee, he surmised.

The waiting room inside was tidy. Two plain chairs with cushions on them, and a small side table with an assortment of various magazines, magical and Muggle. A large landscape was stuck to the wall with magic. It featured a serene pond, colourful flowers, and a number of ugly birds.

Tom settled into the waiting chair by the far wall and reached for one of the magazines out of idle interest.

The door to the office blew open, slamming into the wall. Tom startled, knocking the pile of magazines over. They skidded across the floor, their glossy pages spreading.

Granger was in the doorway, her left hand clutched tight to her chest. Her eyes flew around the room, wild and disoriented, before they met Tom’s shocked gaze.

Tom scowled. His heart was thudding its way out of his chest; galloping him into an early grave, probably. Granger was lucky that he hadn’t blasted her through the wall out of pure reflex.

“What the hell has gotten into you?” he demanded.

“It’s—it’s—!” Granger shook her head, curls flying.

And then she burst into tears.

Gross, heaving sobs that left no doubt as to what must have happened to upset her so.

Certainty washed over him. Tom set a hand on the side table to brace himself.

“He’s dead,” cried Granger, succumbing to her noisy, snotty sobs as she buried her face in her hands. “Mr. Potter—Harry—is gone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again for those in the back: harry is still gonna be in the rest of the story!
> 
> tom still has to go back in time. this will all make sense later on, i promise.


	4. Tom Riddle's Diary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The task of wooing Harry may prove to be more complex than originally anticipated.

“He’s left specific instructions on what to do with the body,” Granger said, once she had calmed enough to speak.

“Funeral arrangements?”

They were now seated in Granger’s office, the small room that was closed off from the rest of the rental space. One neatly-organized desk, and a pair of comfortable chairs that matched the ones out in the waiting area.

“In France,” Granger added reluctantly.

France? Harry had a home in France, a villa with hefty property value. It was, Tom assumed, where Harry had been staying prior to his return to Britain.

“Does he have relatives there?” Tom inquired. “Friends, perhaps.”

“I’m to send the… the body to Ronald Weasley,” said Granger, tapping her Muggle pen against the desk in a nervous gesture. The sound grated on Tom’s ears. She added, “They were fellow teammates.”

From his readings, Tom knew that Ronald Weasley was brother to Ginerva Weasley, of the Holyhead Harpies. She was the ginger-haired woman from the frame in Harry’s private study.

Granger continued to talk, spewing information in her desperate attempt to distract herself from her grief. Tom listened with a careful ear, but he was also distracted.

Harry was dead.

Should he feel more upset about this? No doubt were their positions reversed, Harry would have been devastated. Yet all Tom could muster was an off-putting hollowness—a cavity in his chest where the grief ought to have existed.

Tom breathed around it, grounding himself in the present conversation. “Do you require my assistance in making the arrangements?”

A blankness shuttered across Granger’s face. “That’s kind of you to offer, Riddle. But I can handle this on my own. What I do have for you—” She broke off to reach down for her beaded purse, which she set onto her desk with a clunk louder than expected. The mouth of the bag opened, the drawstrings unravelling, and Granger stuck her hand inside.

What she pulled out was a starkly familiar object. 

The journal, _his_ journal, the perfect copy of the journal in his photographs.

“He left this for you,” Granger said. “I’d be careful with it. It reeks of Dark Magic.”

Tom was already pulling the journal out of her hands, examining the cover, running his fingers over the gold and leather. The cover was blank, not marked as he had originally thought. The back was where the writing existed. Embossed in fine lettering was his name: Tom Marvolo Riddle.

“Thank you,” Tom said smoothly, tucking the journal into his robes. “If there is nothing more pressing, then I will take my leave.”

* * *

Tom's next appointment of the day was an impromptu visit paid to Theodore Nott. In short order, Tom extracted promises of a working time-travel device by the end of the week. The promptness of the delivery time took Tom by surprise, but it was not so shocking that he forgot to threaten the man into swearing secrecy before he left.

If Nott had any concerns about Tom Riddle's sudden inclination towards time magic, he kept those thoughts to himself; a wise decision, in Tom's opinion. Tom knew the risks of what he was getting himself into. Any questions posed about the _certainty_ of his decision would be met with consequences.

Vital business handled, Tom made a trip to Diagon Alley for some necessities.

Firstly, an alternate wand. His yew wand was inconspicuous, and his fear of accidentally meddling with time through being recognized was stronger than his desire to be viewed as notable. There was only one person whose attention he would be seeking, and he would need no impressive wand for that.

Secondly, a new set of robes that would blend better with the time period he was about to visit. Some shoes and other accessories as well—though nothing excessive or expensive. Once he arrived in Harry's time, he would be able to purchase everything else he required, thanks to the currency conversion rates.

A few more errands followed, mostly involving currency exchange and bill payments, rounding off the rest of his trip. Tom had skipped both breakfast and lunch in his haste to prepare for his impending journey, and so his final stop of the day was at his favourite restaurant in Hogsmeade to order take out.

His journal was burning a hole in his robe pocket, and he was eager to return home and uncover its secrets.

Once back at his flat, Tom ate quickly, unwilling to give his journal anything less than his full attention. He could sense the magic—dark magic—pressed between its pages like a caged serpent. Coiled, powerful, _deadly._

It sat innocuously on his dining table. It called to him.

A compulsion of some kind, likely. One that Tom, as the book's owner, would be immune to. Still, the pull of his own magic was strong in other ways. As this was a gift from his future self, it could have any number of fantastical discoveries buried within its pages. Knowledge that Tom had craved since childhood. Power that he dreamed of possessing, shaping into a tool for his own ends. 

Tom forced himself to finish his meal before he gave himself over to his curiosity, but such was the state of his imagination that, when he finally got to spreading the cover open and running his hand down the initial pages, he was stunned to find it was blank.

All of it, blank. Not a single inscription or mark of ink.

Tom flipped through the pages twice to make sure, then proceeded to cast spells on the journal in an attempt to unearth its true value. His own magic did not recognize him. Or else it was choosing not to, for the pages continued to show him nothing.

Frustrated, Tom summoned a quill and inkwell. Perhaps there was a password set on the journal, or maybe it was tuned to recognize his own handwriting.

Tom uncapped his quill and dipped the tip into the black ink, debating what to write. The journal would not harm him. He was certain of this, for any item of his without instructions would have been never designed to harm its owner.

Recalling the label on the back of the journal, Tom poised his hand over the first blank page and wrote out in his usual elegant script:

_My name is Tom Marvolo Riddle._

Tom watched as the ink faded into the page, leaving the parchment as untouched as ever.

Then, lo and behold, a response appeared on the page, the words written in his own hand.

_Hello, Tom. You may refer to me as Lord Voldemort._

Voldemort. Now there was a name that Tom had not given thought to in years. A teenage fantasy, a discarded plot. An old dream.

Tom had followers, had influence in the Ministry, but he had no Lordship and no name but his Muggle father's. Tom was the first and only Riddle in magical Britain, and his plans were more ambitious than a simple name change.

Once he uncovered the solution to death, he would have an eternity to claim titles.

Tom brought his quill to the page for the second time.

_You recognize me? What is your purpose?_

The ink faded and was rapidly replaced with a response.

_Yes. I recognize you, my creator._

Tom only had a second to ponder this before more sentences appeared, the slant of the writing hasty, as though Voldemort was excited to converse with Tom Riddle.

_My purpose is to aid you in your endeavours. I contain, for example, all the information you need to charm Harry Potter to your side._

Interesting.

_Like an aide?_

This time there was a pause between the vanishing of Tom's ink and the appearance of Voldemort's written word.

_I suppose you could consider me such. I possess a number of your own traits in order to be as familiar and helpful as possible._

_What information can you offer me?_ Tom wrote.

_I cannot tell you._

Tom sucked in an irritated breath, only to exhale as Voldemort continued—

_But I can show you. Let me take you back fifty years ago..._

The journal began to glow. The air chilled over, as if the book was sucking in all the nearby heat to fuel its light, and the pages of the journal began to shiver, flipping back and forth.

Tom had barely tilted back before the might of Voldemort pulled him directly into the intoxicating depths of his own magic.

* * *

The world consisted wholly of blinding white light. Tom was tumbling through air that had the consistency of water. When he landed, however, it was directly onto his feet, as though someone had deposited him upright. His eyes took an age to adjust, and by the time colour had returned to his surroundings, Tom had to blink black spots out of his vision.

Tom had used Pensieves before, and this was nothing like that.

He was standing off to the side of an open field. A Quidditch pitch, to be precise. There were two figures standing before him: one of them was Harry.

Straight-backed, windswept mess of hair, atrocious yellow-orange Chudley Cannons uniform. Seeing Harry like this, not quite in person but almost, was an improvement from seeing him in photographs. However, the surreality of this memory (Tom was assuming this to be a memory) meant that he still did not appear quite right.

Across from Harry was a taller man with his hands in his pockets. There was a genial smile on his face, and his heavy gaze fixed on Harry Potter.

This man, Tom realized, was the future version of himself.

That he had not recognized himself immediately was surprising. Perhaps he’d been too distracted by the loud vibrance of Harry’s Quidditch uniform. Or perhaps he was unused to seeing himself so candidly. It was, admittedly, a curious sight.

Entranced, Tom crept closer to observe them both—Harry and himself. As he drew near, their voices became audible, though the sound of them remained slightly distant, like Tom was standing with his ear pressed against the glass, eavesdropping. 

Harry had his arms folded over his chest, lips pressed into a thin line. Riddle, conversely, was at ease, the slope of his shoulders relaxed. The contrast was both amusing and concerning. The frostiness in the air between the two men was palpable. Though Riddle’s smile was a decent attempt at warming the atmosphere, Harry’s disinterest was plain as day, and made more so as he spoke.

“You have a funny habit of popping up at the oddest of times, Riddle.”

Riddle inclined his head, and Tom watched as a curl of hair tumbled across his counterpart’s forehead. “I’d prefer to call it a result of fate.”

Riddle took a half-step forward, only Harry took a step back in response. The side of Riddle’s jaw twitched, tensing in the mildest way that Tom was sure only he would notice in himself. 

“Right,” said Harry. “Sure.”

Riddle switched tactics. “I only mean to say that it’s rather unlikely we happen to keep meeting like this by mistake. After all, the pitch is empty and no one is around. I couldn’t have possibly predicted your being here in advance—you said so yourself that you Apparated here, so that means I haven’t followed you.”

“This is private property,” said Harry, still in that flat, unfriendly tone.

There was a brief second of silence, and then—

“I can leave, if that’s what you want.”

“That might be for the best.” Harry nodded once, dismissive, then turned towards where his broomstick was propped up by the wall, held out his hand, and wandlessly summoned it.

Riddle’s eyes widened fractionally, but the expression was gone in an instant, replaced by the charming veneer of before. Wandless magic was not uncommon, but it was not common enough that Tom would have expected it from a _Quidditch player,_ of all people.

Harry raised a brow as he pivoted back in Riddle’s direction. “Still here?”

Riddle’s smile strained around the edges, a bow string pulled taut. “Sorry to have intruded, then.”

“Not a problem.” Harry tilted his head in what Tom recognized as a mockery of his own gesture. “I’ve gotten a lot of people who don’t get what boundaries are. You’re not the first and you won’t be the last. I can’t say I’ll be as understanding if it happens again, though.”

Riddle cleared his throat. “That’s perfectly sensible of you. It’s wise to take precautions. Though, if you’ve been experiencing such troubles, perhaps a bodyguard…?”

Harry snorted. “I think I do just fine on my own. Thanks for the suggestion, though.”

Riddle hesitated a moment longer, then nodded. “You’re welcome.” Then, when it became painfully apparent the conversation was done, Riddle turned on the spot, and Tom felt a sharp yank on his navel that signified his departure from the memory.

* * *

Tom sat up with a gasp. On the table before him, the journal lay silent, as innocuous as ever.

Ink scrawled itself across the page. His own handwriting, hastier than before.

_Do you see?_

See? See what? Tom had just witnessed his own _failure._ His butchered attempt to secure Harry’s interest. The worst part was, Tom knew _exactly_ what date that must have been. He knew when that conversation must have occurred.

From what Tom had been pieced together from newspaper clippings and photographs, he and Harry had met shortly after the 1966 Quidditch World Cup, which had been hosted in Britain. 

Harry had been drafted for Britain’s team after three successful years of playing Seeker for the Chudley Cannons. Such was Harry’s track record in catching the Snitch that all media coverage leading up to the official announcement of the team had revolved around Harry being a shoo-in for the position.

After the line-up had been announced, all talk had shifted to strategy and gossip. Harry became the fresh face of Britain’s national Quidditch team, a rising star in the eyes of the general population. 

Tom had to applaud whoever was incharge of their PR—Harry was a stunning choice from a publicity standpoint. A handsome young underdog to lead Britain’s team to victory. A half-blood child reared by the Ministry’s darling, Head Auror James Potter, and renowned historian Lily Evans-Potter.

As the date of the Cup drew near, expectations were high. Britain could not possibly lose, it was said. Not with the skill of the team and the uncontested talent of Seeker Potter, who had caught the Snitch in every game he played.

In an ideal world, Britain would have won.

In this world, Britain lost.

Harry was hounded relentlessly by the press for days and weeks afterwards. The public was angry, looking for somewhere to lay the blame, and the media was only too happy to comply. 

Reporters pestered Harry for this detail or that, asking why the team had lost, asking why he had _failed—_

As if he’d done so by choice.

Events escalated quickly after that. Harry had a temper, it seemed, and did not take well to being stalked and harassed wherever he went. Several public altercations were splashed across the papers, further slandering the Quidditch hero the public had once revered. 

So it was no wonder Harry was in a terrible mood in that memory. Tom had originally expected Harry to be receptive to his advances, seeking reassurance and self-esteem from an friendly external source after the heavy blow of losing Britain the World Cup. Clearly that was not the case. It would take more than kind, empty words and an eager ear to coax Harry around.

Harry was not looking for pity, was not open to the charms of Tom Riddle. Harry’s pride had been wounded, and it would be some time until he felt comfortable enough to open up to anyone else. This was understandable, but it would unfortunately alter Tom’s plans for approach.

Tom pushed out a steady breath, now calm. Situation rationalized, he now knew what he needed to do. Tom picked up his quill and scratched out a reply.

_I see._

The words melted into the page, leaving the book blank once more.

Tom waited to see if there would be another response, but none appeared, so he shut the cover of the journal and leant back in his chair, stretching his back out. The more he thought on this, the better he felt. This journal contained everything he would need to win Harry over. 

The path of his future was not quite set, not yet, and the challenge of winning Harry’s affections had just gotten considerably more interesting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah yes. the diary. a very interesting artifact, wouldn't you say? i'm interested in hearing your speculation on its significance!
> 
> thanks for reading, hope you all enjoyed the chapter 

**Author's Note:**

> find me & my writing updates on tumblr [here](https://duplicitywrites.tumblr.com)!
> 
> feel free to join my personal discord server for my writing [here](https://discord.gg/BJRP4A5)!


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